poetry

On The Road To Evermore

chain

As I gaze upon your radiant soul
You live on that faraway plane.
And I see great difficulty adjusting
To this heavy vibration again.

To do-to do
To go-to go
Oh where-oh where?
You do not know.

Like the rest of us who congregate
Upon this plane of pain
You balance between the hall of greatness
And the home of the insane.

What’s your name? What’s your game?
And what is mine as well?
Who will stop to listen?
Who will shun the call to Hell?

A voice that cries within the void
Having no one there to hear.
Will those words just float away
Will they disappear?

The helping hand of our Mother Earth
Reaching down to ease our pain.
Finds rejection for all it’s worth
Again-and again-and again.

But Her teachings are eternal
And her teachings never go.
For they bear the keys to God’s back door
They share His Word via nature’s glow.

Does anyone even hear us? Is anyone even near us?
Does anyone even notice when we shout and scream?
Has the gulf between us grown so wide
They see us living in a dream?

Do they never faintly fain awareness
As they walk their streets of gold?
And they blindly follow fairy tails
That they’ve been told since days of old?

Streets of gold – streets of gold vibrating heavily
Upon a plane of heavenly crud
Mixed in a sea of heavenly mud
Created by the gushing of our Mother’s blood.

What to do? What to do? As we move upon this distant shore
And long for the road to Evermore.
And the keys to unlock their stubborn door.
And welcome them to the land of Evermore. . . for ever more.

Enough

enough pollution

I want to write a love poem . . . sweet and easy.
I want to find a way to say the golden things
The things with wings.
I want to mimic Gibran . . . and Rumi too
I want to write a love poem . . . I do I really do.

I sit at the break of day
When the hush of morn surrounds.
I think of all those loving things
where peace and love abounds.
A thought so strong it births a tear
Takes me back to a better year . . .

BUT ALL I HEAR . . .

Across the hilltops flying high
Are cries from earth
And water
And sky.

ENOUGH! ENOUGH! . . . we say
IF you wish to live another day!
ENOUGH! ENOUGH!! ENOUGH!!!

Chasing Rabbits

chasing rabbits

“Bang, bang, you’re dead!” Tommy yells from the thick woods bordering our back yard. “Ha! I got you right between the eyes! You’re dead!”

Tommy’s laughter recedes.

“Bravo One, Bravo One, this is Delta, Over . . . Bravo One, this is Delta, over.” Again and again the same agitated voice. “Bravo one. Can you read me? Over.”

My pounding heartbeat all but silences the incessant static of the radio lying somewhere to my side. I’m trying to find the handset, trying to answer. My ears are ringing. My eyes struggle to focus . . .

‘Blood! Oh shit! What happened? Roll over. Crawl away. Move!’

Nothing works.

Blurred, ghost-like images move swiftly towards me. I hear excited, sing song voices and struggle against the panic seeking to engulf me. I close my eyes and attempt to merge with the mud I am lying in.

“Help me,” a voice moans to my left. I hear cursing to my front. The low cough of an AK47 shatters the stillness. Pleading screams followed by more shots, curses . . . more shots.

The shooting ends as quickly as it had started. The enemy melt into thick underbrush and vanish into the early morning haze.

I try to roll over . . . to escape into the jungle before they return, but my legs have detached themselves from my brain and are doing a strange mud dance of their own.

I think of my dad, years ago, laughing as Buster the old coon hound runs in his sleep by the fireplace, “He’s chasing rabbits,” dad says to me.

Tommy laughs at me lying beneath the old oak tree playing dead and pokes me with the butt of his BB gun. “Gotcha, Jimmy. Ha! You’re dead.”

Anger

Why is it that we feel compassion and love for a family member when we see them sick and struggling from the throes of some deadly disease, but on the same hand we judge them harshly when we see them locked in the throes of the even deadlier disease called anger?

The earth borne disease remains with the body upon it’s death, but anger follows the soul. Should we then not be more concerned for our loved one’s anger instead of feeding it? Sometimes even on purpose?

Disease
She feeds
Upon the body.
Anger
She feeds
Upon the soul.
Discerning
Kindred spirits well.
She feeds
Them all
From a blood red bowl.

In Absentia

Love is not a thing you do
It’s something that you wear
Thrilling when newly purchased
Comfortable once worn thread bare

This morning I donned my clothes
And walked to the beach
In search of a gift from the sea.
A memento for you.

As I stood watching the sun break the horizon
In awesome glory
I thought of you standing beside me.
But you weren’t.

Within the beauty of that moment
I stood alone
And realized how empty
And naked I am
Without your love to clothe me.